


Everything That Isn't You

by velopourfolieadeux



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Gay, M/M, Prom, Romance, School, Self-Harm, dance, this is really emo, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 11:23:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6954508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velopourfolieadeux/pseuds/velopourfolieadeux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sitting out dances on the wall, trying to forget everything that isn't you. I'm not going home alone,‘cause I don't do too well on my own."</p><p>Pete made the mistake of going to prom, many other mistakes follow. Punch flies, teary eyes, lots of lies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything That Isn't You

This punch tastes like shit. My suit is covered in streamers and confetti and everything is shit. The couple dancing in front of me is shit. This music is shit. I'm shit. Not only is everything shit, but it's bitter. This punch, this feeling, the taste of puke climbing up my throat. Spending my allowance on a corsage and a tux along with prom tickets that could have bought me a six pack and a few joints. How could things possibly get worse?

And then I see _her_.

She told me wasn't coming, she was sick, her father died, homework, whatever. Every excuse led up to her inevitable arrival. She didn't think that I would spot her, did she? She didn’t expect me to be here. Despite the pit feeling in my stomach, I don’t move from my spot against the wall to confront her. I take another sip of my shitty punch as the shitty music blasting in the sweaty room is muffled by ringing. Who likes grinding anyway? Who _actually_ enjoys pressing their dick against a girl’s ass instead of, maybe, dancing like normal human beings? Everyone in this room apparently. The reason? Beats me.

Not everyone enjoys grinding, I guess. On the opposite side of the gym I recognize three guys from my math class. One looks like he got high before he came. He sits in the back of the class and fools around, his feet are always up on the desk and typically he gets sent out every other day for being an overall dickwad. He’s clinging to a girl, they’re sucking face with each other. Disgusting. Another one looks terrifying as fuck, he’s reading and honestly looks like he could beat the shit out of me. He’s the quiet one that always does his homework for some reason. He only ever speaks when he’s called on; I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say a wrong answer. If you only speak when you’re right, you’re never wrong, I guess. And the last is Patrick.

Patrick is the type of guy you wouldn’t think twice about beating up in the hallways. He’s the teacher’s pet, a hamster at best. At the top of every class, the only top he’ll ever be. The only class he probably never passed is gym. He’s short and chubby with these stupid sideburns; which is surprising due to his intense baby face. Even now, the kid’s suit is somehow too big and too small at the same time, being quite vertically challenged as well as quite round in the middle. It’s odd that I find myself attracted to him. He sits next to me in math, all of his papers are filled with beautiful colour-coded notes and cute doodles, mine are filled with shit lyrics and dark scribbles. The only homework I get done are the answers I steal from him. No wonder I’m failing that class. Who needs math when the best tum in the school is sitting beside you?

All the guys in my grade are attracted to skinny bitches who eat less calories in a day than they have pairs of heels, and play every sport you can name. While I’m attracted to.. _Him_. Liking him is a dark road to twice the amount of “fag” insults I get on a daily basis. Which is why I asked her to prom, and it was one of the biggest mistakes I’ve ever made. Why would she ever say yes if the turnout was her attached at the hip and grinding with the captain of the lacrosse team? Or is it football team? It’s all the fucking same in my eyes. Dumbasses playing sports to get out the aggression because they’re too good for therapy.

I suddenly feel myself get up and walk through the dance floor, shuffling my feet against the ground with my punch clasped in my hand. Before I even realize what I’m doing I’m by Patrick and his lame ass friends. The high one is _still_ making out with a girl that I have history class with. I gotta admit, she’s pretty hot. But next to Patrick, it’s a difficult comparison, and a bit of an overstatement to call anyone hot. Nonetheless, I’m standing in front of a twink who I’m not sure why I’m attracted to and three other idiots, knees shaking in my skinny jeans and callused hands clasping my punch. Then splash, my punch falls from my hands and all over the cute bastard in front of me. He lets out a shocked gasp, his cherry red lips are met with cherry red punch all over the suit he probably paid for with last month's allowance, next week’s lunch money, and some extra from his mom.

“Oops.” I walk away stiffly, trying not to let any emotions bleed into the corners of my vision. This’ll all be much easier to forget later if I don’t think about it to begin with.

A quick glance back confirms that, yes, that he’s on the verge of tears and hiding behind the couple who is still making out. I feel like shit. The sound of smacking tongues and half assed moans just about covering up the somber luls of quiet sobs. I hide in outcroppings of wannabe ‘rexics and grade-a jocks. I’m no better than them anyways. If I’m lucky enough, I’ll burn in hell and they’ll get to heaven.

Standing in the back of the gym with a rigid form, streamers and lights hang from my neck. At this point I'm wondering if streamers make an acceptable noose. The scent of shitty cheap pizza from the shop down the street sneaks up around me and pulls me in tight, sweat and perfume clawing its way down my throat. I find myself dragging my cadaver out of the gymnasium and outside of the school, texting my mother to tell her I’ll be home earlier than planned. I don’t mind walking home in the rain for a mile and a half after spilling shitty punch on the cutest boy I’ve ever laid my unworthy eyes on. Of course I don’t mind. I deserve that much, after all.

By the time I'm home my rented suit is probably no longer able to be returned. I look like I stood outside a girl's house in the rain with a radio as if I'm John Cusack, waiting for her to confess her love that doesn't exist. Maybe pouring punch on baby blue-eyed boys with bubble gum lips and a button nose is _in a way_ similar to Say Anything. Metaphors and similes aside, I look and feel like shit. Just like the punch, just like the couples grinding, just like the music in the cramped gymnasium. Absolute shit. Without a word to my mother in the living room, ignoring her “how was the dance? Did you have fun with that girl?” small talk. I storm to my bedroom, body almost twitching with the anticipation of the punishment I deserve for hurting such a wonderful person. Not even close to the punishment I deserve, but it’s the least I can do. Punch doesn’t come out of suits easily, and neither does blood.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry @ Pete Wentz I don't own Fall Out Boy don't sue pls


End file.
